


the disappearing trick

by Anonymous



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Crack, Dildos, Embarrassment, Masturbation, Multi, Slight Medical Kink, commander james fitzjames gets a dildo stuck in his ass, that's it that's the story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21660721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: While enjoying a bit of alone time, Commander Fitzjames finds himself in a bit of a conundrum.
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Harry D. S. Goodsir
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50
Collections: Anonymous





	the disappearing trick

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this kinkmeme prompt](https://terrorkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/396.html?thread=240012#cmt240012).

_Ah!_

James trembles, bucking his hips up. He’s sweating, blankets sticking to his skin like taffy, feet scrabbling for purchase as he forces the phallus deeper inside of him. The angle is just right; with each thrust, it hits that spot inside him that has him muffling his cries with the back of his hand. _Oh, God._ He’s so _close_! A whimper escapes him, not quite caught by the knuckle he’s biting down upon, and the thought of someone hearing it sends him over the edge.

He spasms, cock spitting onto his stomach as he thrusts _hard_ , driving the phallus as deep as possible and convulsing around it. It’s the hardest he’s come in a long time, and he pants, dazed, for a moment before starting to gather his senses.

When he does, he rather wishes he hasn’t.

The phallus is—

Well, to put it blankly, gone.

His hand clenches and unclenches in panic. He runs it over the sheets beneath him, but the lingering feeling of fullness points to a different location.

Sweating for an entirely different reason now, James tries to tamp down the erratic racing of his heart, and pokes around between his cheeks. He feels nothing but the wet pucker of well-used muscle.

_Right. All right._

It’s not so terrible an ordeal; he’s certain this happens to young lads quite frequently. Just… get a touch too vigorous in their auto-amory, and then…

James covers his face with his hand. There’s really no good way out of this; he’s going to have to get help. The thing can’t just _stay_ there, after all—he imagines the… backlog… it may cause, and nearly swoons. No; it has to come out. He’ll just have to swallow his pride, and face it.

He lies on his berth for another moment.

Pokes around his rear once more.

And squeezes his eyes shut. _Collect yourself, man. You’ve got to do it._

James shakily redresses—he can’t quite manage to get his cravat to lay right, and he fears his shirtsleeves are irreparably ruined, but every minute that passes with this phallus pressing up against his inner walls brings with it an increasing hysteria. He wants it _out,_ goddamnit!

Luckily, when he pulls open the door to his berth, Mr. Bridgens is already inside the wardroom.

“Ah—” James’s voice cracks. He coughs. “Ah, Mr. Bridgens.”

Bridgens turns to him, brows raised in query.

“Would— Would you mind terribly, er. That is… If you might… call Mr. Goodsir. I’d be much obliged.”

Bridgens’s face, which has slowly been contorting itself into a rather expressive rendering of panic, nods sharply. “Yes, sir. Right away. Are you unwell?”

“No— Yes—” James feels himself steadily reddening, and he shifts his weight awkwardly, unable to find a comfortable position—no matter how he holds himself, the phallus presses rather insistently inside him. “I’d rather not speak to it, at the moment.”

“Of course, sir,” Bridgens says gravely. “I’ll fetch Mr. Goodsir directly.”

James tries to nod, although it comes out a bit lopsided, and waddles back into his berth, sliding the door shut with a bit more force than necessary. He moves to sit, and pauses, half-squatted, as he reconsiders. Instead, he takes to pacing around the berth while he waits. Which he too reconsiders, upon thinking that it may, in fact, force the damnable thing further up inside him.

He covers his eyes with his hands.

There comes a tentative knock at the door, and then it is sliding open, a curly, bespectacled head poking its way in.

“Captain Fitzjames?” Goodsir calls, and James bids him enter.

“What seems to be the matter? Are you injured? Ill? I might fetch Dr. Stanley, if that is the case—I’m certain he’s far more qualified than I—”

“No, I— I’d prefer it if it was you,” James cuts in, voice wobbling. He tucks his chin into his chest. “You see, I’ve…”

“Yes?”

“I’ve…”

He can’t seem to get the words out. His face is so red he could cook an egg upon it; James keeps his gaze trained on the wall behind Goodsir, whose brows have knitted together in concern.

“You needn’t be embarrassed, sir,” he says gently, clutching his small bag before him with both hands. “I’m certain it’s quite natural, whatever it is. And it’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”

James laughs a bit hysterically at that, and Goodsir’s eyes widen at the unhinged sound. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so certain of that,” he chokes, muscles clenching involuntarily around the phallus buried deep in his ass. “It’s, erm. I—” He blows out a trembling breath.

“Please, captain. I cannot treat you if you will not tell me what ails you.”

“I’ve stuck a phallus up my arse and I can’t seem to retrieve it.” James spits the words out quickly, eager to be rid of them. When he’s done so, he feels his face, quite impossibly, heat further.

Goodsir, Lord bless him, looks stricken. “You— You’ve… what?”

“I’m sorry,” James says. “I just— I can’t get it out myself and I didn’t know what to do. It’s horribly embarrassing, and I’d much rather neither of us had to face something as idiotic, but I’ve gone and done it, so there it is.”

The surgeon takes a moment to compose himself, blinking several times before forcing his face back into neutrality, though it seems to take some effort, and James thinks he can still see a bit of horror shining behind those spectacles. “That’s… It was good of you to come to me,” he says finally, speaking slowly, as though he can’t quite seem to find the right words. “The anus is sphincter, you see, and the rectoanal canal can form a vacuum of sorts—”

“Yes, _thank you_ , Mr. Goodsir, but please spare me the scientific explanation.” James flushes further—by now he is so red he feels sunburned. “If you could just— tell me how I should go about _getting it out_ , please.”

“Er, yes. Sorry.”

James waits.

Goodsir stares at him for a moment and then, as though roused from some deep thought, hurriedly sets his bag down and wrings his hands.

“Could you possibly, erm, disrobe? Your trousers and linens, at least.”

James clenches his jaw, decidedly not looking at Goodsir, and does so.

“Yes. Well. Erm. Bend over please?”

He realizes he’s holding his breath, and clears his throat, shuffling over to the berth and leaning his stomach upon it.

Goodsir comes up behind him, and he feels the gentle, cold pressure of hands pulling his cheeks apart.

It’s a horrifyingly vulnerable and exposed position, but James feels his cock twitch with interest in spite of himself, which only serves to further his mortification.

“I apologize, sir, but I’ll have to, erm. Insert my fingers into your rectum.”

“By God, get on with it, then.” James feels his patience thinning; this entire ordeal is one he hopes to forget entirely, and the longer it draws on, the lesser his chances of doing so.

Likely rankled by James’s shortness, Goodsir thrusts his finger in rather unceremoniously, and James jumps. The sensation is not entirely unpleasant, and he chokes down on a moan, clenching his hands into fists at his side.

“Sorry, sorry!” Goodsir babbles; James can feel his wrist trembling where it presses against his arsecheeks. His finger wiggles about inside him for a moment or two. “I don’t seem to feel anything. If you could… bear down?”

“Bear down?”

“As if… as if defecating, sir?”

Horrified, James cranes his neck as much as his position will allow to stare disbelievingly back at Goodsir. “Right now?!”

“Yes. It will hopefully… force the object down, a bit.”

God in heaven. He will never live this down.

Trying not to think too much about it, James pushes. And pushes. The straining leaves him panting; he thinks that once this is finished, he’ll drown it all in a bottle of gin. Lord knows he deserves it, after this disaster.

Goodsir’s finger is still poking around. It rubs against his walls and prostate maddeningly, and James finds that despite his recent release, he has grown hard. His cock is leaking against the wood of his bunk’s wall, the smooth wood against his sensitive head driving him mad. He focuses on breathing, on thinking of decidedly unarousing things, but the fact remains that a rather attractive young surgeon has his hands up his ass, and he is bent over the berth as though he is about to be mounted.

After perhaps a minute—though it feels more like an hour—Goodsir makes a noise of excitement and presses closer to him, stretching him open with another finger. 

James cannot help it—he gasps, hips stuttering forward. He can feel Goodsir tensing behind (and inside) him.

“Christ,” James says, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“It’s all right.” And is it his current condition, or does Mr. Goodsir sound somewhat out of breath as well? “If you could just— do that again, please. I felt it, just now.”

James gathers the last of his composure and pushes. He feels Goodsir rooting around, and then the sensation of defecation. When he twists his head, Goodsir his clutching an ivory phallus with a bright flush in the apples of his cheeks and an expression of triumph on his face.

“There it is,” he says, grinning, and sets the object upon the mattress beside James. “I would suggest, if you are, erm. To continue doing—” Goodsir flushes, pursing his lips. “That is to say, you might consider being a bit more careful. Or procuring an, erm, item… with a flared base.”

James nods sharply, still bent like a trollop over his berth. He is reluctant to stand and demonstrate the extent of his prick-forwardness, but one glance down at Goodsir’s trousers suggests the surgeon is equally affected.

After a thick, rather awkward moment of silence, Goodsir bobs his head and bends to retrieve his bag.

“Don’t— Don’t hesitate to call for me,” he says, avoiding James’s gaze. “Should, erm. Should any complications—”

“Mr. Goodsir.”

He freezes, halfway to the door.

James cants his hips so his arse is on full display. 

“While you’re here, do you think you might have the time for an examination? I find I’m horridly overdue.”


End file.
